Poetry 1

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    Where I come from

    by Malkeet Kuar

     

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    Where I come From

    There’s no group I belong to,

    No caste no sect no race.

     

    And one step short of losing a gender.

    But that is not possible.

     

    I have been carrying this bleeding burden for too long,

    For past thirty-seven seven years or so.

     

    I have been doing it with such a panache

    and the uterus and I are synonymous now.

     

    There’s no country I come from

    No known city or town.

     

    I come from within a box of baked bricks I call home.

     

    A box echoing the clashing pans

    And as I step out I bump into shoulders all around-

     

    Frozen and stiff

     

    When you return to the place with mauled twigs you call home,

    You know you come from a place that could be anywhere.

     

    But it’s neither here nor there

    Yet one step short of nowhere

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    Malkeet Kaur works as a teacher in a public school in Mumbai. She writes verses to express her deepest feelings. Many of her poems are published in online journals and anthologies.

     

     

     


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    Dirty

    By Michael A Griffith

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    My hands are dirty from what I have just done

    Things happen so fast, before I can think

    Think

    I am a good person

    People tell me that

    My mother raised me to be good

    But I still get dirty hands

    Did my mother

    It feels like my hands are gloved in dirt

    and they might never be clean again

    I think

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    Michael Griffith began writing poetry as a way to heal his mind and spirit as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. His writing has appeared in online and print outlets such as Teaching For Success, Lehigh Valley Woman’s Journal, Twilight Times, Dual Coast Poetry, Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Indiana Voice Journal, and Ripen the Page. He teaches and resides in central NJ….

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    after your last words

    By Alfred Booth

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    I rushed back, every corner a finish line

    neither instinct, survival, nor love

    gave me wings enough

    your fifth floor rooms

    were empty, save the comforter

    sixty-four blue patchwork squares

    with orange flowers

    under which we slept each night

    in the abandon of these last months

    did I remember how many days

    I wept, curled

    in the warmth of our memories

    it did not matter

    I did not run to the lake

    where I carefully folded my clothes on the dock

    hoping this hunger had weaken my body

    I could not sink, following my heart

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    on a southbound train

    By Alfred Booth

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    & too soon things we write resemble poetic trees sprouting deep roots into a new ever-changeable society say #hallelujah say grace my friends

    (over one-forty limit delete?/save?)

    yeah you too Sam heres the daily #riddle where goes the flow of her orange flowered gown? down the twin river confluent in Lyon drowned in sunlight filtered by white noise of smog-misted clouds spoiling the mornings #eclipse its happening the same day as spring #solstice

    you pagan dont u mean #equinox?

    dont shoot the pianist Sam OK? Websters says two words one and same

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    Alfred Booth is an American professional pianist who lives in France, Alfred Booth folds origami; its patience often inspires poetry. When he not at the piano learning new arcane repertoire to stretch his horizons, he teaches would-be amateur musicians to put enough bread on the table. In the 90s he studied extensively the harpsichord and his millennial project had him able to play Bach on the cello; this latter duo waits for his retirement years. Currently he has an 82-poem volume journaling a recent dance with cancer and an 34-poem chapbook of ghazals looking for a homes in the professional world of rhyme. A large handful of his poetry can be found in the e-zines Dead Snakes, I am not a silent poet and Spring Fling. He keeps an online portfolio at: https://www.writing.com/main/portfolio/view/troubadou

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    Prayers

    By Daginne Aignend

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    I’m not a devout person

    False justification, in the name of religion,

    is commonplace nowadays

    Problem is that the so-called ‘true’ religious

    always think that their own religion

    is the ‘truth’

     

    Don’t get me wrong, I’m not

    against one’s belief, it can be

    a guidance in life

    To stay and walk on the straight and narrow

    Personally, I like to believe in the goodness

    of people though human behavior

    often has disappointed me

     

    You won’t find me in a church

    or some other sanctuary

    I must admit, I admire the artistry

    of some of the relics

    But to kneel down in prayer would

    be an act of hypocrisy

    Although, since I know you are

    seriously ill my beloved friend,

    I almost tempted to invoke

    to some God and pray for your healing

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    Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess and photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her fun project website www.daginne.com, she’s also the co-editor of Degenerate Literature, a poetry, flash fiction, and arts E-zine

    She has been published in several Poetry Review Magazines, in the bilingual anthology (English/Farsi), ‘Where Are You From?’ and in the Contemporary Poet’s Group anthology ‘Dandelion in a Vase of Roses’

     


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